Subordinate Clauses
by wealhtheow21
Summary: Short stories set in the same universe as To Find Our Long-Forgotten Gold. May deal with any period from before Kili's enslavement to many years after his rescue. Check individual chapters for content warnings.
1. Oliphaunt

**A/N**:I have a lot of ideas about stories set in the same universe as To Find Our Long-Forgotten Gold. This is just the first one that came out. Fair warning, guys, this particular little story is really quite unpleasant. Content warnings for violence, death and cannibalism (though not very graphic). Next one will hopefully be a lot more fluffy.

* * *

**Oliphaunt**

Skin is burning.

Sun is startling bright in sky. No clouds, nothing to hide its fiery face. High now, close to midday. No shade. He sits pressed against rock. Skin is slick with sweat. Bright, hard light burns cheeks, neck, shoulders. He tries to cover with hair. Burns anyway.

Orcs are in cave. Cave is dim, cool, though not damp like caves in north. Nothing here is damp. Ground is sand, not soil. Sticks to his raw feet, scrapes against marks of whip. Should not have taken punishment for new _snaga_. New _snaga_ will be dead soon enough. Before whip marks have healed, most likely. Before skin has cooled from burn. Should not have taken punishment.

Orcs are sleeping. Cave is close, few steps away. Could slip inside. Shelter from sun, few hours. Slip out before orcs wake. Will orcs notice?

Yes. Orcs will notice.

Three days now since feet were whipped. Too soon to transgress again. Cannot take second punishment. (Should not have taken first punishment.) Needs to be able to walk. Other choice is death.

(Could choose death.)

Sun burns and burns. Never so hard, so bright. Punishment is his. He will survive. (He will not choose death.)

* * *

New _snaga_ has been with orcs less than month. New _snaga_ will not last week.

New _snaga_ is man. Most _snaga_ are men or orcs. Elves too strong. This one is not quite full-grown. Skinny. Learns slowly. He tries to help new _snaga_. Show him how to sit. How not to look at orcs. How to watch without being seen. How to keep quiet.

New _snaga_ does not understand him. Speech is without weight, like twittering of birds. Now almost month, new _snaga _has not learnt how not to look. Has not learnt how to be silent, not seen. Too young, too much spirit.

Will not last week.

March in evening. Night is cool, cold. Shivers are welcome. Moon is bright overhead, stars high, cold, pinpricks. Stars do not burn.

New _snaga_ grows weak. Cannot carry what orcs give. He takes extra. Pack scrapes burned neck, burned shoulders. Sand scrapes whip marks on feet.

Should eat, he tells new _snaga_. Eat, stay strong. No use to orcs if weak. Orcs not keep if no use.

New _snaga_ does not understand. Twitters in bird language. Cries.

No crying, he tells new _snaga_. Keep water in body. Tongue is dry as sand. No water until march is done. No crying. Crying is weak.

New _snaga_ cries. Will die soon.

* * *

March all night. Not bad march if not dry tongue and burned skin, whipped feet. Sand grows cool, stars grow bright. So many stars. What is it like among stars?

Better than here.

New _snaga_ stumbles, falls. Once, twice, too many times. Makes noise. Orcs notice.

He steps away. Puts head down. Orcs do not look at him. Look only at new _snaga_.

Orcs laugh. New _snaga _is young. Is tender. Still have meat from new _snaga's_ village. Salted. Orcs want fresh meat.

Soon, big orc says. Very soon. New _snaga_ grows thin. Thin is no good. Kill before too thin.

Eat, he tells new _snaga_. Eat, eat. Eat or die.

New _snaga_ twitters angrily. Casts salted meat to ground. Tries to steal his food, cast that away, too. New _snaga_ too weak. Fight is over before begins. Before orcs notice.

New _snaga_ sobs like child. he puts hand over new _snaga's _mouth, ignores sharp press of teeth in his palm. Quiet, he says. Quiet. It is only meat.

New _snaga _does not eat.

* * *

No sport, orcs say. No sport, no sport. New _snaga_ cries out when struck. Makes noise, painful, sharp. No sport.

Keep silent, he says. Keep silent as long as can. Orcs like to break. Like challenge.

New _snaga_ cries out when struck. No challenge at all.

* * *

Third day in desert, find green place. Sand in all directions, only here trees and water. He sleeps in shade of trees. Punishment is over now.

Men come in day. Come across sand, great noise. First just men, clothes all black, faces covered.

Then comes beast.

Beast is bigger than horse, bigger than warg. Bigger than mountain. Great grey lumbering, knives like trees in face. Nose is like great serpent. Cry so loud, he covers ears.

_Mûmak_, orcs say. _Mûmak_. Even orcs are scared of beast. Scared, but pleased. Want beast. _Mûmak_ can kill armies, orcs say. Want see what _mûmak_ can do. Excited.

Big orc talks with big man. He does not understand language. New _snaga_ understands. Cowers. Eyes big, face pale.

Big man smiles sharp smile. Big orc laughs. Points at new _snaga_. Big man steps forward, reaches for new _snaga_.

New _snaga_ screams. Cries. Struggles. Points at him, shouts in bird language.

Big orc laughs. Man-cub thinks_ khozd shrakhun_ should die instead, big orc says. What does _khozd shrakhun_ think?

He does not speak. Keeps head low. Watches without being seen. Big orc nods.

_Khozd shrakhun_ is strong, big orc says. _Khozd shrakhun_ is good sport. Man-cub is weak. He laughs, spits at new _snaga_, kicks him in stomach. Speaks to him in bird language. New _snaga_ weeps.

Big man takes new _snaga_ by arm, drags him towards _mûmak_. Big orc grabs his hair, pulls his head up. Watch, he says. Watch.

He watches.

Big man drops new _snaga_ before _mûmak_. Jabs _mûmak_ with spear. _Mûmak_ roars, sound is loud, loudest. Wraps serpent-nose around new _snaga_. Lifts him. Smashes him to ground.

New _snaga_ cries out. Bones crunch. Blood stains sand.

_Mûmak_ lifts new _snaga _again. Smashes again. Cries, crunch, blood.

Third time, no more cries.

_Mûmak_ smashes, over and over. New _snaga_ is nothing but bloody pulp and splintered bones. Orcs laugh. Big orc kicks him in back. He makes no sound.

Fresh meat tonight, big orc says. Orcs cheer.

* * *

Bone splinters make meat hard to eat.

* * *

Four months in desert. Whip marks heal. Big orc talks, always talks to men. No more _mûmakil_. Stars bright every night. Days burn, nights shiver.

Hopes not to see _mûmak_ again.

* * *

He sees one in a picture, years later. He doesn't understand why Hobbit wants him to have the picture. He can't throw it away. It is his. Hobbit wanted him to have it.

He can't throw it away, but he can try not to look at it.

* * *

The next time - the last time - Kili saw an oliphaunt was many years later, by the banks of the River Anduin, before the great city of Minas Tirith. They were many, far too many, and fearsome, just as he remembered. But he had survived, and he would survive, and when the battle was over, one beast was felled by an arrow in the eye, and Kili's bow thrummed with revenge.

The battle was won.


	2. Sword

I know a number of people asked for Dwalin POV; this one's for you. Thank you to strangeandcharm for the quick read and the endless nagging cheerleading!

There's some messing with the timeline in here; some of the dwarves in the movie are clearly not the same ages they are in the book, so I've gone with what ages I think they probably are. Purists, avert your eyes!

* * *

**Sword**

Later, they would argue endlessly about who was the elder. Thorin would swear blind he had been born before the sun rose above the Iron Hills, and Dwalin would laugh and say that there was no sun that day, a day of black clouds and tearing winds, when two babes were born of Durin's line and the fires sputtered in the forges. _I am the elder_, Dwalin would say. _That is why I am taller._

And Thorin would laugh and clap him on the shoulder. _You are taller because the midwife stretched you pulling you from your mother_, he would say. _You fought her, just as you fight everyone_.

_Aye, that's so_, Dwalin would say, but it was not so. Dwalin came out of his mother's womb with his fists clenched on a day when the sky was black and the winds howled around the mountain. But he did not fight for the sake of fighting. He fought for the sake of those who were worth dying for.

* * *

Dwalin came out of his mother's womb with his fists clenched on a day when the sky was black and the winds howled around the mountain. His mother told him the story, over and again, smiling down at him as she held him in her lap. _You will be a warrior_, she said. _None will stand against your sword._

_Do not make prophecies_, said Dwalin's father. _It is too early to know yet what he will be._

But Dwalin's mother only smiled. _I know_, she said.

* * *

Farin, son of Borin, was twenty-nine years old when his uncle, King Dain, was slain before the gates of his kingdom in the Grey Mountains, and Dain's son Thror led the remnants of their people to the Lonely Mountain. _Dragons_, he said to his grandsons many years later, _dragons are the oldest enemy of dwarves. Be wary of dragons, lads._

Balin nodded, for he had read a great deal of dragons in the books that he loved so dearly. Oin was yet too young to understand, and Gloin was not even born. But Dwalin listened to the words his grandfather spoke and swore to himself that one day, he would kill the dragon that slew King Dain.

It was a promise he did not keep. Nor was it to be the last.

* * *

Balin was the elder. When Dwalin was but a wee thing, he used to ask at every turning of the year when it would be his turn to be eldest, and yet, although he grew older every year, Balin grew older, too, stubbornly keeping ahead no matter how much Dwalin tried to catch up. Balin was the elder, and it was he who sat patiently and learned all that was expected of him, while Dwalin dozed over his books and itched to escape. _Balin will be the lore-keeper of the Line of Durin_, so his father told Dwalin, as his grandfather had told him before. _His learning will protect them from losing Mahal's favour. Our traditions are our most sacred possession._

Dwalin was never in danger of being a lore-keeper. He had not the patience for it, nor the even temper that his father said was needed for a royal advisor.

_Well, if Balin will be the lore-keeper, what will I be?_ he asked.

His father regarded him without a smile.

_We shall see_, he said.

* * *

Dwalin took to the forge like a dragon to gold. He began when he was barely tall enough to hold a hammer, and his tools grew as he did, until one day he was taller than all the other dwarves of Erebor, wielding his great hammer, feeling the strength and power of Mahal flow through his arm. Balin was the elder, but time went on and one day Dwalin was the taller, standing at the forge and feeling at last that intense joy that Balin found in books and learning. He felt it in the burn of his muscles; in the sweat that Mahal's breath drew from his brow. And he felt it, too, on the training grounds, with an axe in his hand, moving without thinking, nothing but force and fury. Mahal had hewn Balin a thinker; Dwalin he had hewn for battle.

_All dwarves can fight_, Dwalin's father said. _All dwarves can smith._

Dwalin took to the forge, and he took to battle, but all dwarves can fight and all dwarves can smith. These were the offerings that Dwalin had, and he laid them gladly at the feet of his prince.

_All dwarves can fight_, his grandfather said, _but not all dwarves are warriors. You, Dwalin, you will be the shield of the Line of Durin. Thorin will be your king, as Thror is mine. Mind you take care of him: kings are hard to come by._

_I will be the shield_, Dwalin repeated. And he swore an oath to himself, and never did he speak that oath to any, not even Balin, to whom he told many of the secrets of his soul. It lived in his heart only, but it tied him the more strongly for it.

Yet even the strongest ties cannot account for the weakness of the body and of the spirit. Dwalin did not keep his promise, though not for want of trying. But he made another promise, many years later, and that one, he kept.

* * *

Dwalin took to the forge like a dragon to gold, and it was the forge-fire that drew him most of all. It danced and smouldered, too bright to look on, and the heat of it was like a living creature, drawing sweat from Dwalin's skin. The forge-fire could turn a lump of sooty rock into a shimmering stream of molten metal. The forge-fire was the breath of Mahal, his gift to his children. Dwalin took to the forge, and there he felt the hand of his maker lie heavy upon him, and every stroke of his hammer seemed to sing like a prayer-chant. In later years, he felt the fierce joy of battle, the fury of the raven-feeder that cares not for the sorrow that will follow when the dead are counted. But slaughter-song, sweet though it was, never did compare with the ringing of the anvil and the breath of Mahal, scorching against his skin.

It was not until the dragon came that Dwalin met a fire that burned with dark power and did not speak to him with the voices of his ancestors. That fire, Dwalin never forgot, even in the deepest sleep. That insult, to his people, to his prince, he never forgave. He made a promise, then, that one day he would slay the beast that had thus driven them out of their home.

Dwalin did not keep his promise, though not for want of trying.

* * *

Dwalin stood at Thorin's side when the dragon drove them from their home, neither of them yet of age, barely standing their full height. He stood at Thorin's side through the long wanderings that followed, and he stood there before the gates of Khazad-Dum when King Thror was beheaded before their eyes, and Thrain Thorin's father ran mad. Dwalin lost his own father that day, and Frerin - Frerin Thorin's beloved brother, who was too young to be there but was there nonetheless - Frerin they did not find until after the battle, his eyes open and clouded in death.

Dwalin stood at Thorin's side through it all, and yet once only in his long life did he witness Thorin weep.

* * *

The summers were short and splendid in the Blue Mountains, the sky arching blue and cloudless above, the grass a riot of flowers below. The summers were short and splendid, but the winters were long and bitter, and at times Dwalin suspected that that was exactly why Thorin had had them settle there. They lived in caves to begin with, but the mountains were not of the right stone, rough and crystalline and impervious to the steady drip of water, so that what caves there were were shallow and offered little protection from the weather. So instead they took to building homes aboveground, little structures like those of men, and thus showed in their very manner of living the grief that they had suffered, their exile from the bosom of the earth, where their maker dwelt and whence they were sprung. These curious, tumbledown dwarf-houses were as much a sign of their loss as was Thorin's shorn beard and his mourning braid, and even years later, when they led good lives and the holes in between the stones that made their walls were packed with moss and no longer let the weather in, they knew that they were far from home.

But live they did, the short, splendid summers and the long, bitter winters, and they made use of the knowledge that Mahal had blessed them with, setting fires in their forges and delving for metals in the mountains. But Mahal's breath was weakened here, far from the depths of the rock where his heart beat ever and anon, and the forge-fire was cooler than it had been in Erebor, and Dwalin's hammer no longer sang. The goods he made were well enough, though, enough to keep bread in their mouths, and every summer they would travel to sell what they had made in the winter, and to set their hands to mending what the menfolk of the Blue Mountains had broken in the long cold months. Swords there were, aye, but none of them were too proud in those days to mend a broken ploughshare or beat out a copper pot.

And live they did.

* * *

They talked long into the night, Thorin and Dwalin. Erebor was all they spoke of, Erebor, their home and the beast that stole it from them. They did not say _Frerin_ and they did not say _orcs_. Instead it was _the dragon_, and instead it was Erebor, Erebor, _Erebor_.

They did not say _Frerin_, and Dwalin did not hear Thorin speak that name for sixty years.

* * *

Live they did, aye, and more than live. For one day in the short, hot, summer, Mahal blessed the lady Dis, sweet Dis who had grown sombre and sad since the death of her brother Frerin before the gates of Khazad-Dum, and brought forth from her a child, the first of the royal house of Erebor to be born since Frerin himself had come into the world, only to leave it so few years later. Fili, the child was named, and he was serious-faced like his uncle and looked at the world with solemn eyes. But Dis, sweet Dis, sombre and sad since her brother had died, Dis learned to smile again, and to laugh, and she stood with the babe in her arms and laughed at his solemn face, and kissed him. And he was loved more than anything in the world, and after that the winters seemed not so bitter any more.

And yet the blessings were not done; for not five years on the heels of Fili came another child, as different from his brother as night from day. He was born with a shock of dark hair, and he learned to laugh before he learned to focus his eyes. And Fili, solemn little Fili, who for five years had watched the world with his serious eyes, grew suddenly bright and gay, and would twist his face into the most alarming grotesqueries in a bid to make his brother laugh.

And laugh Kili did, and Fili laughed with him, and they were the most cheerful of families. Even Thorin seemed less overcome with sorrow, the rage that never left him loosening its grip a little more every year as the two dwarflings grew, and he began to tell stories he had never told before, to speak his brother's name for the first time since Azanulbizar. These stories he told, of a reckless youth in Erebor and Dunland, and Dwalin marvelled at the change in him, catching sight for the first time in many years of that dwarfling he had known from the cradle.

Fili taught his mother how to smile, and Kili taught his brother how to laugh, and Thorin learned to make his peace with the past, but Dwalin - Dwalin learned something else. Dwalin learned that there was room in his heart for more promises, or perhaps simply for greater ones. And he swore to himself that he would shield these children from all the grief that their family had borne for so many generations. That he would see that they did not forget how to laugh again. And he prayed to Mahal, deep in the earth, to strike his sword-arm from his shoulder should he fail.

Perhaps it was that Mahal could not hear him, perched absurdly as he was on the surface of the earth; or perhaps he heard and chose not to answer. But Dwalin did not keep his promise, and Mahal did not strike him down.

He was never sure whether it was a mercy.

* * *

There was no moon the night the orcs came.

Dwalin did not know what caused him to wake, only that wakeful he was, and on his feet a moment later, calling a warning before the watchman had realised they were under attack. His axe was in his hand, and he sprang towards where the young lads had been sleeping, but his way was blocked by a great orc astride a slavering warg. After that, there was only the desperate dance of battle, with barely enough light to see his enemy and no way to know how many there were. Black blood, hot and stinking, spattered his face and drenched his chest as he took the lives of three orcs and two wargs, his body moving without thought, long-accustomed. All dwarves must be able to fight, but Dwalin was a warrior.

And then, as soon as they had come, they were gone. The ringing of metal on metal died away, and there was only the sound of one of the lads crying. Screaming.

One of the lads was screaming.

Dwalin turned towards the sound, axe at the ready. But his promise was already broken.

* * *

In the last days of that short, splendid summer, Thorin Oakenshield stood before his people, his shoulders thrown back and his eyes blazing forth with the rage that had once begun to slip away. _I am here_, he said, _to ask you all to swear an oath_.

The dwarves of Erebor stood silent. Thorin regarded them all, and then he nodded. _We have all lost kin_, he said. _The Battle of Azanulbizar claimed the lives of many. Brothers, fathers, sons._ Dwalin bowed his head, thinking of his own father, and many in the crowd did the same. Thorin stood silent a moment, out of respect for the dead, who had been burned to ash as though they were Children of Iluvatar. And then he raised his head. _A comfort, at least, to know that they died in battle, with an axe in their hand and glory in their hearts_, he said, and a murmur of agreement ran through the crowd. Then Thorin reached down and picked up a ragged, blood-stained tunic. Once it had been a deep blue; now it was almost black with grime.

_This belonged to my nephew, Kili, son of Dis_,, he said, and although Dwalin did not know it then, it would be the last time he would hear Thorin speak that name for twenty-five years. _We found it three days' journey north of here, along with his bones. It was not vultures that picked them clean._

A shocked silence settled over the crowd. Thorin waited until the last echo of his words had died out, and then he spoke again.

I_ ask you to swear that you will never turn aside from a chance to slay one of these filthy beasts. I ask that you never rest until they are wiped from this earth. There can be no forgiveness for what they have done. I ask this of you._

Silence once more. Dwalin felt the earth beneath his feet, sought to feel Mahal, but Mahal's heart beat deep, deep, and he could not feel it. He was not the shield of the line of Durin, but perhaps he could be the sword.

_I swear this_, he said, striking his closed fist against his chest. _I swear it_.

And so, too, the others swore, and none refused the oath, and as the short, splendid summer drew to a close, they opened their eyes for orcs and their hearts to fury, in the hope, perhaps, that it would dull the pain of sorrow.

That winter was unseasonably warm. It was the bitterest Dwalin could remember.

* * *

Mahal was the god of craft, of forging and mining, of mountains and caves. There was nothing so tightly bound that Mahal could not put it asunder, and nothing so shattered that Mahal could not knit it together as new. And so it was to Mahal that Dwalin prayed, that long, bitter winter, to forge anew the Line of Durin, to knit them together and make them strong, make them whole again. But he was perched absurdly on the surface of the earth, far from where Mahal's heart beat, and perhaps that was why Mahal did not hear him. Or perhaps it was only that there was no help to give.

They were not forged anew. They remained shattered, Dis who recovered from her frenzy only to grow sad-eyed and silent, Fili who became once more the solemn child he had once been, as if the life of his brother had been merely a flash of gaiety in a long, sombre life. Thorin, whose eyes shone with a rekindled rage.

They were not forged anew.

* * *

They talked long into the night, Thorin and Dwalin.

When first they had come to the Blue Mountains, it had been Erebor, Erebor, Erebor. But for fifty years and more, Erebor had faded, and they had sat over their ale and talked with passion of Fili and Kili, of their first teeth, their first words, the strength of their grip and the alertness of their eyes. And later, once Dwalin and Balin had taken them in hand, of their training, their lessons. They spoke critically to the lads themselves, but in those evenings, deep in their cups, they regaled each other with stories of how Fili beheaded that practice dummy, how Kili struck a target that Dwalin could barely see. Erebor, of course, Erebor. But not always, or even often.

And now, in the long, bitter winter that was unseasonably warm, Thorin spoke no more of training, or of lessons. Fili's name he barely mentioned; Kili's he never let pass his lips. Erebor it was again, _Erebor_ and _the dragon_, and they did not say _orcs_ and they did not say _Kili_. And when Thorin was well in his cups he would say _I want you there, Dwalin. I want you at my back when we kill that wretched beast and take back our home_.

And Dwalin said _Aye, I will be there. I swear it._ And this promise he kept.

* * *

And then, one night when Thorin had drunk more than was usual and they had been talking of Erebor for five years, he sat and stared into his tankard and said _It never ends_.

Dwalin made some comment about the ale, and Thorin raised his heavy head and looked on him with haunted eyes, and Dwalin knew that it was something else.

_When we lose them - I think, always in the back of my mind I think that one day I will wake and they will have returned. That the parting is painful, but temporary. But it is not so, Dwalin. They will not come back._

And here, Dwalin thought, here was where it was traditional to speak of Mahal, of the halls of their fathers, where they would all be reunited to await the remaking of the world.

_No_, he said instead. _They will not._

Thorin's head sank between his shoulders. _How can this be borne_? he asked. But there was no answer that Dwalin could give.

Dwalin had stood at Thorin's side when the dragon drove them from their home, and when Thror and Fundin and Frerin were lost before the gates of Khazad-Dum. He had stood at Thorin's side when Kili had been snatched from them, and when they had found his bones.

And yet once only in his long life did he witness Thorin weep.

* * *

Many years later, Dwalin stood in the forge where once he had learned the first steps of the smith's art, and where, not three hours before, Mahal had spoken, accepting the hobbit as a dwarf-friend and blessing the young dwarf who Dwalin had held not two hours after he was born and who Dwalin had lost through weakness of spirit and body. He stooped to gather into his arms the heavy, rusted shackles that had bound the lad to a life of misery. They lay black in the firelight, ugly and glowering. And Dwalin felt the breath of Mahal on his skin, and when he brought his hammer down, it sang like a prayer-chant, or a battle-cry. He struck again and again, and he felt the strength of his arm return to him. All dwarves can smith, but Dwalin was hewn for the forge, for the forge and for the battlefield.

And he had a promise to keep.


End file.
